I don’t really know what to say. Everything has been at a loss for so long. I guess some people are genuinely scared of writing, sort of like how I am genuinely scared of trying new things before I’m ready to.

I love writing. It’s such a rich medium. && I’m learning some foreign languages (mostly French), and learning new American English vocab words, so hopefully my ability to express myself naturally improves.

I’m glad interesting people still exist, too. There were some folks in the neighborhood I heard, and there was some like, I think they know me or at least know of me, and I was listening to them sort of drink whiskey and enjoy some weed (is there any dignified term for that drug?), slowly. And it was slow, and nice. And I felt involved, even though I was just at my desk in my room (is it immature to have a “my room”?), and it was a shared moment, despite the separation. We were “on the same wavelength”–and they were sort of shadowy, so I don’t even know if they were hallucinations or not. I have a mental illness so either thing is completely possible.

NEWEIGH.

What do you think?

I’m trying to be better.

Do better.

Taste better(?).

I don’t really know what any of this means.

But it’s decent to sort of, have comfort. Comfort is super-important. Adventure is also very important. I need both of these things just a tad more, to put it bluntly, in my life, to have a fulfilling remainder of my late 30s.

Age is such an illusory concept, too. You feel young, you are old–you are young, you feel old.

I don’t know.

Thanks for reading.